


Not Alone

by bornforwar_archivist, tangofiction



Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornforwar_archivist/pseuds/bornforwar_archivist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofiction/pseuds/tangofiction
Summary: By TangoA short unguided tour of the minds of Ares, Xena and Gabrielle.





	Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Delenn, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Born For War](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Born_For_War), which closed in 2015. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in March 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Born For War collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bornforwar).
> 
> Disclaimer: I know it will come as a surprise to some of you, but none of these people... I mean, characters, belong to me. In fact, they are owned by RenPics, MCA/Universal and probably a whole bunch of other folks with a lot more money than I have, so please don't sue me. 
> 
> Rated: PG 
> 
> Author’s Notes: I'm trying my hand at yet another new style, so bear with me. This takes place some time after "Path of Vengeance". 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Special Thanks: Special thanks to LadyKate for her encouragement and helpful comments.

_...And again, if two lie together, then they have warmth;  
but how can one be warm alone?_  
Ecclesiastes, IV:11   
  
  
  
A sharp cry, a well-aimed kick and the guy is a shapeless hulk in the tall grass, weapons and all - a flip, two more kicks, and the other man clenches and unclenches his fist in comical incomprehension, his sword gone. It’s a perfect fight, the sort of thing Xena takes for daily exercise, a little skirmish to wake her up. She’s gorgeous, skin glistening gold, hair streaming around her face like a dark halo. Dammit, I could watch her all day!   
  
Sometimes, I do. Gabrielle’s also there, of course, by her side in the forest clearing - not that she’s a sidekick these days. No, Xena did too good a job on the blonde. I hate to admit it, but she’s a warrior now. Who’d have believed it? Probably one of the best - couldn’t be anything less, not with Xena training her. Took her long enough, but she did it, hating it every step of the way. Her brows still furrow in concentration in a fight, as if she’s trying to remember why she’s doing it - which would be amusing, were it not for the fact that _she’s_ the one down there, back-to-back with Xena. They’re moving in perfect unison, complete trust.   
  
I watch them dispatch two more thugs - they’ll have a nice set of matching scars when they wake up tomorrow - and wonder what it would be like to be in the blonde’s place. Xena’s back pressed against mine, muscles moving under the armour, nothing between us and nothing around us, one with each other and the fight.   
  
I snap the portal closed so abruptly that bright afterimages dance in front of my eyes for an instant. No need to wait for the outcome - what’s a couple more bandits? I slump back in my throne and scowl into the semi-darkness. I want wine. A goblet shimmers into my hand obligingly, stone-cold, the outside matted with condensation. I nearly spill it in surprise. Damn, I keep forgetting it works again - which only makes me more annoyed. Liquid sloshes around the rim as I swirl it. I weigh the goblet in my hand, then swing my arm back and pitch the thing into the depths of the hall like a fireball. It sails through the air turning over and over, trailing ribbons of red liquid, and dissolves away before it can hit the wall, like a shadow melting in torchlight. Figures. The doors don’t slam here, either. Some things about being mortal were damn satisfying. Pathetic, but satisfying. Maybe I should wish for some chickens to kill. Wouldn’t that be a sight for Olympus!   
  
Just as well there’s no one else here. Except Aphrodite, if she’s still around. Most days though, she’s down there fussing with her mortals - and I’m up here in this ghost town. Somehow, fighting in their little skirmishes doesn’t have the same thrill anymore - all those faces. Keep thinking I’ll run into someone I used to know, back when I was mortal. Which is unsettling at best, not to mention embarrassing. Doesn’t exactly do wonders for the reputation, does it? Just for now, I’d rather watch from here. Better view, at any rate.   
  
Everything is exactly like it’s always been - frilly, tacky, sparkly. When Aphrodite’s not around, I amuse myself by wandering through the corridors and zapping them all black. All that white marble, colonnades, frescoes... Athena’s beloved tapestries all over the walls, the place looks like a cheap carpet shop or a bad theatre set - but Dad wouldn’t hear of tossing any of them, not even her very first one, the one that looks like a sick horse threw up over a canvas. One day I’ll get around to torching it.   
  
It’s weird, I’d have thought I’d like it. I mean, with my family... Who’d miss them? But it’s too quiet here, like there should be feasts and those inane costume parties of Dite’s and Athena’s nasty little jibes at Dad’s nymphette of the week...   
  
The mortals have a word for this, I’m sure. They have a word for everything - or a few. No clue - but words by the cartload. What was this one, again? Oh, yeah. I wince at the memory. That nosy neighbour-woman asked me about it, the one time we talked. Or, rather, she talked. It was after Xena had left me on that precious farm of hers. Greba - was that her name? - only got close enough because I hadn’t noticed her standing there, watching me. I was too busy watching the two of them disappear over hilltops, then reappear again, smaller each time. Then they were just two dots in the blue distance - funny how mortal eyes see things. Didn’t look back.   
  
That’s when she came up, carrying a steaming pot - like I couldn’t cook a chicken! - and just stood there until I took it. Any ideas she had about staying to chat evaporated at the look I gave her. She turned to go - sorry she bothered me, she'd just thought I might be ... What? I glared at her, but it’s hard to look menacing holding a pot of chicken soup. She shrugged, like it was supposed to be obvious, then said - lonely.   
  
Yeah, that’s it.   
  


* * *

  
  
I lower my sais, slowly, as though coming out of a trance, and look around, waiting for the pounding in my head to stop. I hate these moments - when the rush of battle is ebbing and I’m left weak-kneed and rasping shallow breaths, trying not to think about what I had just done. Xena’s already saddling Argo, checking her shoes. I notice it’s not dark anymore, daylight filters through the leaves in yellow patches, but the grass is still damp. I peer at the three unmoving bodies strewn around the sunlit clearing - probably just unconscious, but I still wonder if they’re dead. Then I wonder what it would be like to go to sleep properly, without expecting to wake up to an ambush.   
  
I bend down to sheathe my sais in my boots and try for a wry smile - at myself, at everything around me. At least this gets me out of bed - or whatever passes.   
  
Xena’s motioning at me impatiently - wondering what’s taking me so long. I resist the impulse to check if the men on the ground are dead - Xena’s right, better to leave now. Just as we’re about to set off, there’s a sound in the trees. I fight momentary dismay - I’ve had enough for today, but Xena just looks wary and jumps off the horse to investigate. She could do this all day, every day - practically does.   
  
Then she’s smiling and a moment later I see why - it’s Virgil! I’m ridiculously happy to see him, he’s beaming, climbing down off his horse to grip Xena’s arm, then I’m hugging him, trying not to burst into tears - why do I want to cry, anyway? Post-battle comedown, nerves - but I have a feeling it’s something else, too. His arms are so comforting around me, his eyes warm with concern - is everything okay? I can only nod, embarrassed at my blubbering, he wipes the tears from my face gently - damn it, here I go again, dissolving into fresh sobs. I can’t even remember the last time I cried like this. What’s wrong with me?   
  
Virigil notices the bodies around us - what happened? Xena just shrugs, like it’s nothing to worry about - ambush, some thugs with nothing better to do. They’ll be all right by nightfall, skulls too thick to crack. Virgil nods thoughtfully, smiles - but there is still worry in his eyes, they don’t leave mine.   
  
Xena asks what he’s doing in these parts - I want to know, too. He tells me he’s running a school - in Potadaeia of all places! We have so much to catch up on.   
  
We get up on the horses and ride to town, while he tells us all about the classes, the new pupils, how they got the kids to perform a comedy in the town square and the magistrate liked it so much that they’re taking it to Athens! That’s where he’s coming back from, he’s been arranging the theatre there. It all sounds great, I have a million questions, but Xena’s very quiet. Theatre’s not her thing, let alone school - but I can see she’s trying to show some interest. Doesn’t fool me, though. I tell her to wake up and poke her and Virgil rolls his eyes good-naturedly. She pretends to be offended, but I can see she’s laughing.   
  
When we get to town, it’s all hustle and bustle, people moving everywhere, carriages piled with wares for the market, kids playing in the mud - the usual. I can’t even remember if we’ve been here before, but it doesn’t matter - we just follow the sour smell of ale to the tavern. Sure enough, it’s a dingy little place in the centre of town, all but empty this early in the day. We order some breakfast and settle down to eat.   
  
The porridge arrives, a grey dollop of something that looks suspiciously like glue with bits of shoe polish in it. The waitress assures us it’s not bad if we pick out the burnt bits, and I can see Xena’s got that glint in her eyes. I hide a grin. Xena rests her elbows on the table and starts to argue about the price - she’s in a _really_ good mood - admittedly, four dinars is ridiculous. Over the top of their bargaining, Virgil takes my hand and for the life of me, I don’t know why my heart is thumping like crazy. He asks if I want to come with him, to Potadaeia. To teach. Xena’s got the price down to three dinars seventy, not a copper less, I note idly - before his words sink in.   
  
Me. Teach writing. In Potadaeia. Go to Athens with the little theatre group, organise more plays. They have a music class, too - Virgil plays the lute, his father taught him. The mention of his father almost has me tearing up again, but I tell myself to stop it. The price for the porridge is now two dinars, but I can’t seem to think straight. He’s looking at me expectantly and I suddenly realise that I want to do this.   
  
That takes some getting used to. I umm and uhh a bit, stalling for time - I actually want to do this! It’s been a while since I’ve really wanted something - it always seems to be about having to do something, having to fight, having to get up in the morning. The more I think about it, the more sure I am. The porridge is now one dinar seventy, because it’s cold - but it wouldn’t have been cold if ma’am hadn’t argued about the price, would it?   
  
I allow myself a small smile, finding that I have to yell over the bargaining - sure, I’d love to! Of course, the noise had to have stopped at that exact instant, so that I shout "love to!" into complete silence and half the tavern is looking at me in surprise, Xena included. "Love to what?" she asks suspiciously, handing over the dinar and seventy coppers into the waitress’ outstretched hand without looking. The girl leaves in a huff - and I just keep looking at Xena’s face and can’t seem to make out the words. A million thoughts run through my mind, most about Xena, how theatre’s not her thing, and how I can’t believe what I’m about to do. Luckily, Virgil comes to my rescue - his school would be so honoured if I would come and teach... He doesn’t get much further, Xena’s face closes over, thunderclouds drawing across it. I don’t know how to explain, where to begin, so I just sit there, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of the water - only I want to breathe - trying to think of the right thing to say, until she pushes the cold porridge away - the gluggy mess wobbles in the bowl - and storms out. Virgil gives me a troubled look - he didn’t mean to cause this. I tell him to stay put and slip out after her. The whole tavern’s watching - their entertainment for the day!   
  
I go outside and see her back, heading for the stables. She doesn’t turn around when I call, so I have to run to catch up. It’s strange - I feel both guilty and free at the same time. It’s good to know what I want to do, I just can’t fight the sudden emptiness at the thought that she won’t want to come along. And she won’t, I know.   
  
I grab her arm and she spins around. There’s such hurt in her eyes - she can’t believe I’d take off just like that. Neither can I. But she doesn’t know what happens to me in that twilight zone between warrior and plain old Gabrielle, the bard, the dreamer with my head in the clouds - and blood on my clothes, my hands. She knows I don’t sleep well some nights, I’ve told her - but I don’t think she really comprehends what it’s like. She’s lived this life since she was little more than a kid. I’ve grown into it. For a long time, I thought that that was exactly what I wanted. Since before I met her.   
  
She’s listening now, trying to figure me out - so I take a deep breath and keep going. Now that I’ve lived this life, the life of a warrior - adventures, travel. Death, too. It’s been happening for a long time now, brewing - ever since we helped Ares on that farm of his and had a couple of days of ... well, peace. Peace. I want peace, Xena, I can’t do this anymore.   
  
And now I’m crying all over again, harder and harder because she’s holding me in her arms and stroking my hair, rocking me back and forth - I don’t even care that we’re in a busy street, she’s everything I have - and I don’t want to lose her. By whatever gods are still left out there, by the trees, mountains, rivers, people, whatever remains of this strange world - I don’t want to lose her! But I can’t lose myself, either.   
  
She’s not crying, but I can feel her breaths making her chest shudder in sharp beats against mine. There aren’t going to be any tears, that’s not Xena - it might be easier if there were. I ask her to come with me, repeating it again and again, like I used to do when I was little and really, really, really, wanted something from the gods - for my parents not to fight, a new dress for school. I don’t know why I thought that saying it a hundred times would help, but it made sense then - and now. She holds me at an arm’s length, looking into my face - for a moment I want to say I changed my mind, but I know that would be a betrayal - then she smiles. Oh, if I start bawling again I’ll lose all self-respect, so I break out into hysterical laughter instead. All right, she says, she’ll come, just to see me settle in. A second later, she’s laughing, too - and now I _know_ the passers-by think we’re insane, but I couldn’t care less. We half-walk, half-stagger back to the tavern, still laughing - Virgil sees us, waits for an explanation uncertainly, looking from me to Xena and back again, but all I can manage is "everything will be okay!"   
  
And I believe it, too. It will work out.   
  


* * *

  
  
I open the door and step out into the street. Argo’s waiting where I left her, looking at me with brown accusing eyes. Cheer up, girl, you want to run again, don’t you? I pat her nose and feed her an apple quickly, then jump up into the saddle, press my heels into her flanks and we’re off. It feels strange to be riding, wearing my armour again, after nearly two months. It’s comfortable in a way that makes me think of home - not Amphipolis, just some vague notion of ‘home’. I’m doing the right thing, I know. Just wish I didn’t have to.   
  
I thought something was happening when I woke up this morning, finally - there was all that noise downstairs. Managed to grab my sword before I realised it was just Sarah, Gabrielle’s niece, doing the dishes. She’d left the back door open, so the clanks and clatters carried right up to my window. I should have been relieved, but no - more annoyed and kind of disappointed. Not that I wanted an army at the doorstep, of course not, but after two months in Potadaeia, I’m just about ready to scream.   
  
A couple of kids wave at me as I ride past and I make myself wave back - they’re good kids, not their fault I’m in no mood for pleasantries. I’ve got to leave, before things get ugly. I told Gabrielle I’d only stay until she’s settled in - and she’s so settled in by now, it’s hard to believe she’s ever been anything but the town’s hero schoolteacher. It shames me that I can’t be happier for her. I’d gotten too used to having her around - but she’s right, she needed this. All those little things that seemed somehow out of place in a warrior - the way she bites her lip when she’s amused, her grumpy hellos in the morning - all that fits in here like a missing piece in those puzzles she and Virgil cut out of maps for their lessons.   
  
Me, on the other hand - I stick out like a sore thumb. Even in a dress. The kids look through the barn door when I’m practicing with the sword - got to keep in shape - and hide as soon as I look their way. "Gabrielle’s friend’s weird". One little girl pulled on my skirt yesterday and begged me to teach her to "whack things with that circle-thingy," pointing at my chakram. I told her it wasn’t for whacking things, but my stomach heaved and I knew I had to leave. Gabrielle doesn’t, though.   
  
The school building is quiet - it’s the middle of the day, they’re all inside. I pause by the window despite myself - there’s Gabrielle, her back to me. She’s waving her arms animatedly, an open scroll in one hand, but she’s not looking at it. I’d bet she knows that poem, or whatever it is, off by heart. I manage not to laugh as she vaults up onto a student’s desk, startling the kid out of his seat, and continues her declamation to a rapt audience. There’s still a warrior in her, but a content one. I nudge Argo forward quickly, before she turns, or one of the kids sees me looking in. It’s her moment, they love her.   
  
I’m nearly at the edge of town before I hear my name called. Damn. I pull at Argo’s reins, cursing under my breath and wait for Virgil to come up beside me. I don’t want to explain, but I can’t just ride off now he’s seen me. I must admit, though, I’m a little relieved - he’ll do a better job telling Gabrielle than I could, they both have a way with words.   
  
He surprises me - there’s a sort of understanding in his face as eyes dart to the saddlebags - filled with the kind of provisions meant for a journey, not a ride to the next village - and then up to my face. I try not to look impatient, but he just asks if there’s anything else I want. No mention of Gabrielle, I’m so grateful I actually smile at him. He’s disappointed, I can tell, but we both know I wasn’t going to stay. I tell him to kiss Gabrielle from me, he actually blushes and I can’t help grinning - I’m willing to bet he hadn’t realised it was so obvious, the way they look at each other. When I clasp his arm in farewell, I tell him, seriously, to look after her and I know he understands what I mean. It’s good to know Gabrielle will never be alone here.   
  
I hate farewells, but I feel lighter somehow - grudgingly glad I’d said good-bye to Virgil, at least. I know I wouldn’t have been able to say it to Gabrielle, but I reassure myself that I’ll be back soon. I just need to stretch my muscles, that’s all. Argo snorts - she doesn’t believe me - then her stride lengthens into a gallop and I can’t think any more; we’re riding the wind through the fields and then into the hills and for a while, I’m free again.   
  
It’s very late by the time I look up and try to get my bearings - hard to tell, too dark. I’ve been riding for a few days, breaks to eat and sleep, just enjoying the feel of it - or maybe trying to outrun my thoughts. Truth is, I don’t know where I’m going. Or where I am. Those hills look familiar, but then, most of Greece does by now, more or less. I wonder if there’s a place I haven’t been, at one time or another. It makes me feel old to ride slowly through the tall grass in the darkness, my muscles stiff from days in the saddle after a long break - how much longer can I do this? A year - two, three, ten... I almost turn to ask Gabrielle what she thinks, then shake my head. I’m still getting used to it. How long has it been since I’d last been on my own like this? Seven years? Well, thirty-two, with the nap.   
  
The ground starts to slope upwards gently, Argo’s clicking steps slow down a bit. Thinking of the "nap" in that ice cave - all twenty-five years of it - makes me think of Ares. I hadn’t seen him since that time in the Amazon camp, when they captured Eve. Bastard. I’m mad at myself, because the memories that spring into my mind are not the ones I expected. I keep thinking of his eyes, the way he looked at me, up on Olympus, when those chains fell off him and he knew he was mortal - for me. My hands tighten around Argo’s reins until my nails dig into my palms. That brings up another memory - I really must be getting old, all thoughts seem to lead to reminiscing somehow - his face, beaten and bruised, the skin of his cheeks rough with scabs and scratches, after the Furies got into his stupid newly-mortal head. But I can’t help flinching, it was my blows that did it - then, of course, the rest of that memory demands attention. A warmth spreads through me, I can still feel his soft lips under mine, and a sudden metallic taste as my kiss splits a barely-healed cut.   
  
I shake off the thoughts and look up, just as Argo comes up to the hilltop. Then my heart seems to squeeze into a ball and I miss a breath and start coughing. I was right, I do know those hills - and that valley below. That’s where my grandparents’ farm is. The one where we hid Ares from that warlord.   
  
Before the memories - Ares, shirtless and chasing chickens with his hair mussed up - drive me crazy, I kick my heels, surprising Argo and she launches down the hill. I only have time to wonder why it’s his short time as a mortal that I keep thinking of, and not his millennia as a god - so, of course, I can’t help but see his face last time we parted, with him very much a god again - and what I thought then - how his eyes still looked mortal.   
  
Argo comes to a halt, foamed and shivering, and I lead her to the stables. Nothing’s changed here, really - I bet the roof still leaks, too - but at least the stables are in decent repair. I rub down Argo’s sides until her hide is gleaming, give her her feed and watch her munch contentedly for a while. You’re growing soft, I tell her. Too used to sleeping indoors. But I can’t blame her - especially since the air feels heavy, it’s going to pour tonight.   
  
Inside the house, it’s as I suspected - smells damp, and it is; takes me a while to get a fire going in the fireplace. I get out a chunk of bread and my wineskin and sit in grandpa’s old rocking chair. It creaks and moves under me, trailing cobwebs as I rock back and forth. There’s a distant rumble and before I know it, water’s pouring all over my dinner. Yep, the roof still leaks. I cringe as I swallow the rest of the soggy bread, then head to my old bedroom - I hope the roof is still whole there.   
  
It is. The bed is a mess - tangled linen blankets in a heap and one sorry-looking pillow. I look through the cupboard half-heartedly, but there’s nothing promising there, just some old clothes and a family of mice. For some reason, I don’t want to throw them out into the storm - it’s really bucketing down now - so I close the cupboard firmly and head back to the bed, dumping my armour on the way.   
  
I shake the blankets in case there’s any other wildlife there, but they look all right. I climb into bed and get an odd shock - it smells like him. Warm, familiar, undeniably masculine - definitely not what I want to be smelling now. I ignore the flutters in my chest and flip the pillow over, beating it savagely. The other side’s no better. I throw it to the floor and turn over to my lie on my stomach, burying my face in my arms, but I can still smell him. I wonder if I’m imagining it now.   
  
"Thought you’d never come," says a voice behind me and I turn over so fast, my fist connects with something warm - then gets caught in it - his hand. "Well, nice to see you too!"   
  
Ares, standing by the bed in those pathetic farmboy trousers he’d worn when all three of us were here, without his shirt. I can’t help staring. He’s grinning at me so smugly that I fight an urge to sock him another one, but find myself blushing instead. I really am getting old, it must be hormonal.   
  
It’s only when he lets go of my hand and sits down on the edge of the bed that it dawns on me - I narrow my eyes - "What are you playing at?"   
  
He doesn’t answer - predictably - but asks another question instead, that smile still tugging at the corners of his lips and - I can’t help noticing - forming small crinkles around his eyes. Maybe I’m not the only one getting old - though that’s ridiculous, of course.   
  
"So," he asks, picking up the pillow off the floor and kneading it, "are you staying long?"   
  
I shrug, still reeling - "No. Just for the night."   
  
He props the pillow behind me, his chest touching my shoulder as he leans forward. "Good," he says, moving back a bit - "Then you can’t force me to fix the roof tonight."   
  
And all at once we’re laughing and speaking over the top of each other, a thousand idiotic things that all seem to start with "remember when" and "that time" and then I remember what I wanted to ask. I can’t think of the right way to phrase it, so I just say, "Odd look for a God of War."   
  
He stops laughing and looks at me. I cross my arms and wait, my hands suddenly cold. But it can’t be, surely... Can it?   
  
"Are you mortal?" I ask, before I can stop myself.   
  
He’s silent for a while, staring down at his bare feet, looking strangely vulnerable - I don’t know what to think - then he looks up at me and I see the sparks of laughter dancing in his eyes. "Maybe," he says - and his voice ripples down my spine, setting my skin on fire from somewhere deep inside. Damn him, even after all these years, he can still get to me... He feels it, too, the bastard!   
  
"But you know," he continues, still in that voice - "there’s a really fun way to find out." Yeah, I say, I could try killing you - but it’s just bravado, I’m scared of what I might do ...   
  
"That, or..." His voice is teasing, but his eyes are soft, questioning. Just like they were in my memories, only this is real, now. He’s waiting for me to say something, and I can feel the seconds trickling into the past. He looks so silly in those linen pants, with a bit of his hair sticking up at the back - I reach out and smooth it down.   
  
"I prefer the leather."   
  
Maybe he’s still a god. But for once, I don’t think it matters.   
  


The End


End file.
